


Your heart is a bad, bad thing

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-15 21:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3462893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Normal isn't for you, Bucks."</p><p>"It probably isn't."</p><p>(And no, of course it's not. This boy, this impossible boy; all fire and stardust. Salt and sand and steel and god, how could he not want him. </p><p>How in hell could anyone not want him)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your heart is a bad, bad thing

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to make me happy, leave a like or a review!) :)

There's a universe inside of you

Don't let the stars that make up the outlines of your bones burn out

* * *

"C'mon, if you'd just stop reading now, we could go out!" Bucky's voice is high-pitched and whiny, the words accentuated by a look on his face that would suit kicked puppies better. But Steve doesn't react, he looks down just as quickly as he looked up, eyes glued to the letters in front of him. That is, until Bucky kicks the book out of his hand with an ungraceful move of his hand. "Stop reading," he demands, facial expression now all stern and angry. Not really, of course, but Steve sighs, making clear he gave up. 

"Okay, okay," he tells Bucky, "We'll go out then, you fucking jerk." 

Bucky snorts, and whispers something that sounds an awful lot like "nerd"

Which isn't really new to Steve. That's what everybody calls him, and to be honest, it's one of the nicer names. Because, hey, he's a short, thin, stick-figure mock up of a teenage boy. And he loves reading and numbers and calculations, so yes. Nerd it is. 

"Oh, you're trying to insult me by calling me a nerd? Go on, tell me how awfully smart I am," he starts, standing up and sticking his tongue out after the words left his mouth, "What's next? I dress good?" 

Bucky laughs, and ruffles through his hair.

"Yes, very dainty and amazingly good. You really pull off the clothes that are five sizes too big off thing." His voice is smooth and stinging with sarcasm, a big toothy grin accentuating his words. 

"If you can, you can, bucky-boy." 

* * *

 

"I just don't get it, Steve," Bucky starts, hand wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle. Steve can hear the ocean from where they are standing; the water crashing against the white cliffs and breaking with the sound that somehow resembles breathing, and seagulls are screaming over their heads. It's warm, uncomfortably warm, and Bucky's shirt is sticking to his skin in all the wrong places. And it's mesmerizing, the way the white fabric ripples with every movement, the translucent cotton shifting over muscles and the pale skin of his back and shoulders. 

"What don't you get," he asks, as he forces himself to snap out of it. 

"How you can just sit there and read all the time. There's so much going on." And as if to make his point even clearer, he stands up and spreads out his arms, the ocean breeze ruffling through his hair. He turns around and greets Steve with a joyful smile cutting at the corners of his mouth. "Look at it."

And he does. He looks at Bucky. And wonders if there's more than this. Than this. This is friendship, two guys being dudes. Beer and take out hamburgers and stupid jokes. 

"Don't look at me, you idiot, look at the sea. Did you know you should be able to see France from here? When the weather's really good," Bucky starts, turning around and giving Steve a full on look of his back which is too clearly visible underneath his shirt. 

And he sees is an invite to stand up and walk towards the edge of the cliff, right next to James. 

"I can't see France," he answers, shortly, and he can hear Bucky snort. 

"I said when the weather's good, you goof."

And yes, Steve knows there's so much more than what is there to be found on the yellowed paper of old books that smell like dust. But also, there is so much to know. And he wants to know it all. About supernovae and white sharks and the Higgs-Boson. 

He takes a deep breath, smelling the ocean salt, almost tasting it. As he looks at Bucky, he notices how he's staring at him, a weird look on his face.

And for one brief moment he wonders if he would taste the sea on Bucky's lips. 

* * *

 

His hands are shaking with excitement as he runs down the road to Bucky's house. Heart fluttering like butterfly wings and skin tingling with excitement. As he arrives, he waves at Bucky with the paper that's safely held in his clenched fist, almost throwing up on his doorstep from exhaustion. 

"Ohho, easy there." James lays his hand on his shoulder as Steve tries to catch his breath. 

"I did it," he mutters, breathing heavily. "I did it!"

"What did you do?" Bucky asks, laughing. 

"They took me! I enrolled in Oxford!" He almost screams, hands still shaking and he can't tell if it's because he's so fucking happy or because his lungs are threatening him to just give up. 

The smile on James' face falters and he can see his eyebrows furrowing before he quickly feigns a smile that is obviously fake. 

"Oh, that's great!" And Steve can hear the fake excitement clear in his voice and it takes him a moment to understand. 

He stands up, muscles still contracting irregularly, and places both hands on James' shoulders. 

"This won't change a thing, Bucks," he says, voice breaking as his breathing finally slows down. He can feel a trickle of sweat running down his neck, wetting the hem of his T-shirt. "Promise."

A small smile tugs at the corners of Bucky's lips and he shakes his head. 

* * *

 

Above them the sky is stretching out in the most magnificent blue he's ever seen, and a warm breeze that faintly smells of salt and fish is playing with bucky's hair. 

Steve lets himself fall down, all sprawled thin limbs and sharp angles, but Buck remains seated, eyes scanning the horizon.

They can see France today.

"So, that's it huh. Small Steve is going to conquer the academic world of physics." 

Steve can't help but smile at the thought, not even cringing over the fact Bucky used the nickname he hates so much. 

"That's the plan," he answers, and he lets out a small giggle. He's going to Oxford. In less than six months he'll walk through hallways that are older than he can even really understand, wearing a blue blazer with the oh so famous crest adorning the fabric over his chest. Learning all about space and forces and so, so much. 

"What about you?" He asks after a while, turning around to lay on his side, chin resting on his arm while his elbow buries itself in the muddy grass. 

James shrugs and looks at Steve, tilting his head. "Don't know, punk." He sighs and lays down next to Steve before adding, "I really don't know.

"Sometimes I think I'm meant for more than this. And sometimes, sometimes I feel like I should just give up dreaming and study and do normal things,"

He looks at Steve with a sad smile adorning the harsh features of his face. He's changed so much, Steve thinks. Because Bucky outgrew the stage of wiry limbs and bones shimmering through skin. Now he's all bulked up and he looks as if he could fuck up about anyone. 

"Normal isn't for you, Bucks," the smaller blond answers, grinning. 

"It probably isn't." 

* * *

His suitcase is all packed up, shining new leather that has probably never seen the inside of a train carriage before, and Steve can barely contain himself. Excitement and anticipation taking over, making his fingers tremble as he tries to button up his brand new blazer. Navy blue, of course. 

"Look at you," a voice from behind him announces, and he quickly realises it's Bucky, "All blue and brown. Lookin' good, boy." 

He laughs, shoulders shaking, before he turns around. 

James is standing there, wearing a khaki, camouflage uniform and a matching hat. Back straightened and shoes polished. 

"Army, eh?" Steve asks, "Why didn't you tell?"

"I only found out yesterday, but hey, you know me. Already had the uniform-"

"Just in case," the blond finishes the sentence for him. 

Bucky grins apologetically, "Exactly." 

"Look at us. The Army soldier and the Oxford student, quite impressive."

"To say the least. But hey, it means I won't be home when you get back for the semester holidays." 

Oh. The thought makes Steve's stomach drop what feels like a couple of floors. 

"Why not?" He asks, unsure if he wants to know.

"Afghanistan, baby."

Steve snorts, but there's a flash of jealousy parching beneath his ribs. A sting. He had applied, of course. It had been his childhood dreams. But Asthma and allergies and the amount of mucus that threatened to fill up his lungs made it impossible for him to wear another uniform than the one belonging to universities and posh schools. 

"Well, then, good luck." 

He stretches out his arm, but instead of shaking it, Bucky laughs and wraps his arms around the frail body of the younger boy. 

"Thanks. Punk."

"No problem, Jerk."

* * *

The smell of late summer is still thick in the air, and the last leaves are still clinging to the branches as if they do not want to surrender yet as Steve first touches Oxford ground. 

The air is more humid here, in the middle of the country. Not as dry and filled with sand and salt as he's used to. It's warmer as well, even for bloody old England. 

Yes, it's going to be pretty amazing here. 

* * *

 

"You didn't need to help me, you know," he says, and groans as the hollow, pulsating pain returns in his nose. He lowers the cool-pack and looks at the girl in front of him. She's pretty, he guesses. Bright red hair and piercing blue eyes. A ridiculous contrast that somehow really fits the way she carries herself, all stubborn pride and somehow cat-like. Ready to attack.

And she has already proven she doesn't just seem like that. 

"Those guys were going to kick your fucking ass, little one," she answers, and there's a faint accent shimmering through. 

"I would've fought."

"Yeah, what were you going to do," she asks, all raised eyebrows and taunting smiles. "Throw up a big load of mucus on them?" 

That's not funny, and apparently she notices, because she quickly shrugs and holds out her hand. 

"Natasha."

"Steve," he answers as he takes it before curtly shaking her hand. 

* * *

 

There's a letter in the mailbox. And it's from Bucky. 

His heart jumps right into his throat when he recognises the handwriting, and god, he missed him. He missed him so, so much. 

The letter doesn't really say much. Apart from it's hot in Kandahar, and We lost two great men.

And it's then he realises that Bucky's life is in danger. He's there, in constant risk of being shot and dying and god. Visions of blood drying underneath the unforgiving glare of a thousand desert suns and chunks of bubblegum pink tissue adorning the heated heaps of sand. 

It frightens him, but only a bit. Because James can't die. James is invincible.  
He's this fiery, god-like lion-boy. His lion-boy. Fierceness and bravoury and all things worth dying for. 

* * *

 

"Who is this James?" Natasha asks him one day, scanning his face with interest, as if to see the reaction the question provokes. 

"A friend," he answers, curtly. 

"A friend? Or _a friend?_ " 

"Don't know why the emphasis is there, Tasha. A friend." 

He can see she doesn't believe him, and he starts to laugh before going into defense mode.

"No, really," Steve tells her and shakes his head, "A friend. I've known him since pre school."

Natasha just raises her eyebrows and shrugs. 

"Well, then I don't know why your pupils dilate every time you talk about him. Oh, and how your voice starts trembling every time you read aloud his letters he sends from Afghanistan. Plus, your heartrate picks up every time you think about him."

Steve splutters, "How.., How the hell do you know that?"

The redhead smirks before answering, "I didn't. Just guessed." 

And she's right, somehow. His heart really picks up whenever he comes across the name James, or sees a silhouette that looks eerily familiar to the one belonging to Bucky. But that doesn't mean a thing, now does it? If anything, it's because he misses him.

He misses his stupid face, with that stupid smile and those stupid broad shoulders and - Fuck. 

Fuck. 

 

* * *

 

"Oi, Punk!" Bucky screams the second he sees the frail boy waiting for him at the station, only waiting a split-second before fastening his pace and almost run up to the littler one. 

And suddenly muscular arms are wrapped all around him, and a scent that is so, so familiar floods his senses as Bucky buries his face in the crook of his neck. 

"I missed you," Steve whispers, hands pressed against James' back.

"Missed you too," Bucky says, awfully close to his ear. Breath all warm and tickling and sending electric jolts down Steve's spine.

Bucky's changed. He's even more muscular now, and he has a tan. James Barnes actually has a fucking tan.

This is just unfair. 

His hair is longer now, almost reaching his shoulder. And he can barely resist the urge of running his hands through them, just like he did in his dreams. In his dreams. The confusing dreams. He has had them ever since Natasha asked about him. 

Dreams filled with sweaty, slick skin and teeth on his neck and muttered profanities underneath clean sheets. He quickly shakes off those thoughts, he can't think of them near Bucky. Because Bucky can't know.

Bucky isn't allowed to know. 

How he sneaks his hand down his abdomen late at night, thinking of the way he looked when he stood there in his room; all khaki and cheekbones and just pushing him against the wall, pressing his lips to James' neck.Teeth tugging and tongue darti- okay, no. 

Bucky isn't allowed to know. 

* * *

"Just like old times," Bucky says, letting out a comfortable sigh for emphasis, as he lets himself fall down onto Steve's bed. It's hopelessly too small for James, and to be fair, it's also a fair piece too short for Steve.   
"Feels like years."

Yes, it has been years. Two to be exact. And now they're here again, all grown up (kind of) and outgrown (not yet). Bucky has changed. Afghanistan has changed him. He's all muscles and brute force, nothing to play with. 

Steve...well. Steve's still steve. Frail, asthmatic, and lungs that try to outrun their duty about three times a day.

"So," Bucky starts, in a tone Steve knows by heart, "Any hearts broken during your stay at Oxford?"   
Steve laughs, and runs his hand through his hair in a pathetic display of something that can only be explained with nervousness.   
"Not really," he answers, sounding almost apologetic. 

"Aw, C'mon. Live up to my standards, because-" he ungracefully gets up out of the bed and stands right in front of Steve, not even aware of what this simple movement provoked inside the smaller man - "You could, you know?" 

Steve looks up at him, surprised at how soft the other words left Bucky's mouth.   
"No, No, I'm not like you, James," he retorts, unable to keep the cocksure smile from slipping. Because he isn't. James is everything he aspired to be, and he's just normal and frail and thin and small and ugh. James is wow. James radiates danger and risk, as if he sucked up the glow of the desert sand. Maybe he did. Because he's this light that leaves a trail of stardust; all comet-tails and gold particles. He's this jack-o-lantern boy that glows from the inside and everybody wants to touch and be touched by. It's always been like this. 

And it's perfect; bittersweet and pure torture. Because he has _no idea_. 

* * *

 

"Like old times," Bucky laughs, before plopping down onto the wet grass.   
  
Steve lies down next to him, leaning on his elbows, skin digging into mud.   
Eyes glued to the sweat-glazed face of his best friend. 

_"Normal isn't for you, Bucks."_

_"It probably isn't."_

And no, of course it's not. This boy, this impossible boy; all fire and stardust. Spinning his needs and dreams and truths out of thin air and starlight. He's all but blazing sunlight caressing exposed skin and desert heat pooling in the pit of his stomach. Sweat running down his face, droplets coming to a rest on the pink, soft flesh of his lips. Salt and sand and steel and god, how could he not want him. This cosmic, fiery beacon of a young man.

How could he ever not want him. 

* * *

 

"You look happy," Natasha remarks as she looks up from her book. Something about thermonuclear astrophysics. It's only then he remembers they are supposed to write a paper on the thermonuclear processes that lead up to Supernovae type Ia. Shit. 

"You can make me even more happier," he starts, showing off that crooked smile he wears so well.

"No." Her answer is short and resolute, and to make sure he gets what she's saying, she stands up and closes the book. 

"Please, Tash!" he begs, but he can see by the way she turns around towards the door of his dorm room that she's not going to let him copy parts of her paper. 

Fuck.

"Only if you tell me about James," she inquires, turning around smirking. 

"Friends," he grits out, "We're only friends."

"If you two are just friends I'm queen Elisabeth." She tells him, eyebrows cocked and smile wide.

"Well then, your royal highness," he tells her, bowing dramatically, "We really are just friends." 

She looks at him, eyes scanning him from tip to toe, before she adds, whispering, "Not by choice." 

And to his - and her - surprise, he nods. Because no, definitely not by choice.


End file.
